Cracking The Code
by T.Y.P.E-W.R.I.T.T.E.N.18
Summary: Set from straight after Sherlock's death in series 2, John begins an epic race against time to find the answers buried with his mysterious friend. He receives help from the most unlikely of people - but can they be trusted?
1. Chapter 1

John sat by the window, as he had ever since the recent death of his friend Sherlock Holmes, and stared at the rain. The rain hadn't stopped for a week since the funeral, the fat droplets of water an endless waterfall of tears he could no longer cry. He had spoken to his psychiatrist but, after the first session, couldn't bear to dwell on the tragedy that had shaken him so brutally to his core. That is why he had moved out of Baker Street and the empty apartment that had suddenly seen so huge and gaping without his friend there. He hadn't even had the will to sort through Sherlock's things yet – which, once upon a time, seemed immense and endless, a mystery within themselves; but were now just empty objects without character.

John kept getting horrific flashbacks of the event, just like the ones he used to get after Afghanistan. But back then, Sherlock had been his distraction that had helped him get on with his life – now there was nothing. There hadn't even been a case, as Scotland Yard and the Met didn't find him in a 'fit' enough state of mind to work.

_Sherlock staring him straight in the eye – fear on his face – and then spreading his arms and falling, falling. . ._

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

The sound of a thumping fist on the front door snapped John out of his involuntary state in sudden surprise. He quickly jumped up and walked to the door, an unusual spring of anticipation in his step. It wasn't that he never had any visitors - rather that he wasn't good company at the moment so others seemed to have steered away.

_It must be Mrs Hudson_ he thought as he clicked back the lock and swung the door open.

Instead, the woman standing there seemed nearly half Mrs Hudson's age and was wearing a low-cut black dress. She had red lipstick on her pale face, and her eyebrows were intricately curved to permanently give her face expression. However, as she stood in the doorway with her lace umbrella and straight-cut coat, her face was not pulling the same expression that it usually portrayed. Instead, her brow was pulled together in worry and her hair was dishevelled and unkempt.

"Miss Adler?" John felt stunned – not by her appearance (as usual), but by the fact that she was here at all. The last he'd heard of her she had been dead.

"John", she breathed, suddenly seeming relaxed. She peered over his shoulder into the house. "Where is he? I was surprised to hear that you two are no longer in Baker Street."

John's felt his face fell. He had hoped, just for a second, that she had turned up from out of the blue to tell him that Sherlock was actually still alive.

"He's not here", he said miserably. "He's dead."

Adler's eyebrows perked up in suspicion.

"Oh come on, this is Sherlock we're talking about", she mocked sarcastically.

She looked at John for a long moment before realising he was being deadly serious.

"Oh, god", she muttered, covering her mouth with her hand. She seemed to turn paler, and John thought quickly.

"Come inside." He slowly ushered her through the hall into the living room and sat her down.

"Dead?" she asked again, still asking for clarification. Wanting to avoid this conversation for as long as possible, John gestured to the kitchen.

"Can I get you anything? A cup of tea perhaps?"

Adler just stared at him with an intense gaze, a thousand questions burning in her eyes. John sighed and sat down opposite her, promptly realising that now was the best time as ever to tell her. After all, putting off explaining it wouldn't do him any favours.

He took a shaky breath before he started, flashbacks once again filling his mind.

"It was Moriarty, I'm sure it was. We - Sherlock and I - had run into him before, but then he came up in a court case after breaking into the three most secure places in London." Adler's eyes widened. "In the end, he couldn't be proven guilty so he went free. Then, long story-short, an intricate game unravelled that ended in Sherlock's. . ." He choked, swallowing on the last word.

Adler sat in silence, taking it all in. John awkwardly looked down at his hands, not wanting to make eye contact with the woman who deceived and twisted all that she touched – even the great Sherlock Holmes.

"That tea would be nice now", she sniffed, her voice low. John immediately stood up and left the room.

As he stirred the milk into the light porcelain cups, the motion soothed him. In truth, he enjoyed moments like these – moments to be alone. _That_ was most likely the reason why he'd been on his own lately - not that other's hadn't wished to see him, but that he'd unintentionally alienated himself.

Only now, he wasn't alone. Just through the doorway was Irene Adler, a wonder in her own right, but a complicated one. Whatever Irene Adler did or wherever Irene Adler went, there were always strings attached and bargains to be met. But as silence dawned on in the flat once again, company with her suddenly didn't seem like such a bad idea.

As John carried the tea through to the other room he studied her face carefully, searching for any betrayal of emotion he could find.

She took the tea gratefully, giving a tiny smile, and sipped it slowly. John sat himself down opposite and circled his finger round the rim of the cup as he thought.

"I want to see him", Adler said suddenly. John looked up at her in despair, wondering if the last conversation had just been a total waste.

She smiled apologetically.

"I meant his grave", she said, wincing slightly.

John felt a raw pain in his chest, and a strange nagging sensation - guilt. He had visited the grave once after the funeral, but hadn't been since. Now he felt like he had betrayed his friend in some way, even though he hadn't stopped thinking about him since . . .

"Sure", John sniffed, putting his cup down. He then stood and waited. "After you."

.

An icy-cold breeze blew through the cemetery as they stood, heads bowed, before Sherlock's grave. It had stopped raining while they'd walked, but John could still feel the rain curling round his toes and making his bones grow cold with each gust of wind.

The golden writing on the black stone stated nothing but Sherlock's name – gleaming mysteriously against the dark background. That had been Sherlock, always the mysterious type. The unsolved case.

"Look." Adler knelt down and stroked scratches that had been made by Sherlock's name.

John looked up at the tree the grave rested beneath.

"Probably just a fallen branch", he grumbled, feeling saddened that Sherlock's grave had already lost its unsoiled quality.

"No", Adler argued, looking up at him. "These scratches are deep – they're deliberate."

Confused (with resentment slowly growing at the possibility of vandals), John knelt down beside her and studied the marble headstone.

Sure enough, carved into the tombstone, were markings which John had not noticed before. Shocked, John felt the etchings of the symbols with his trembling fingers.

"Who could do this?" he gasped, shocked.

"I don't know. But I think it's important that we find out what it means."

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	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to Annabeth Black for being my first reviewee. Hope you all enjoy this next chapter!**

"Is it a cipher?" Adler asked. The two were back at John's apartment, after having taken a photo of the strange engravings on Sherlock's grave.

John raised his eyebrows, surprised that Adler would know such a thing. Then again, she _had_ managed pretending to be dead for a considerable number of months. He shook his head.

"No, it makes no sense as a cipher", he explained. "Sherlock and I have already dealt with one before – this seems a little basic to be a cipher."

"_Then why can't we figure it out?_" Adler exclaimed, throwing her hands up in despair.

John didn't respond, as he had no answer. Instead, he took the various printouts of the markings and held them up to the light – looking for any hidden meaning that he could make sense of at all. Finding nothing, he looked out of the window to the murky streets of London town.

Despite being midday, the clouds were still burying the sun behind their dark bodies – giving the light no chance to escape. From his window, John could see the old hospital that Sherlock had . . . _jumped_ from, which saddened him immensely. Unfortunately, the only two places that had been available on the market for quick-sale had been this place or a place that overlooked the graveyard. At least here John could pretend that Sherlock was still in the labs working away, unlike if he had moved into the other property and would have had to see death looming just beyond his reach.

An idea clicked into John's mind.

He must've reacted in some way, as Adler looked up from the printout she had been staring blankly at to give him a questioning look. John went and sat next to her so he could point on his own copy.

"This symbol" – he pointed to an etching of a rectangular box with symmetrical lines – "looks exactly like the hospital across the road."

Adler stood up to peer out of the window. Sure enough, the drawing appeared to be a simplified version of the hospital opposite.

"Ok, if that _is_ the hospital, what could the second symbol mean?" she asked dubiously.

John stood up, joy apparent on his face.

"We've been looking at this in _too much detail_", he said, waving the paper in the air. He pointed to the second symbol – an italic swirl in the shape of an 'S'. "This is a music symbol; Sherlock had one on his violin. Which can only mean that _this_" – the initials RAM – "is the Royal Academy of Music Museum."

When he stopped speaking, John could feel excitement quivering through his whole body as his battle instincts lay primed for the thrill of the chase.

"So the Royal Academy of Music it is", Adler said, picking up her coat. "What are you waiting for?"

.

The building of the museum was an impressive sight to behold, with its grand white pillars and high structure. However, John and Adler did not waste time admiring the construction work, but quietly hurried inside, the wind at their backs.

Going straight into the 'Current Exhibitions' area, they entered a room full of violins. The whole room smelt of polish and echoed with an eerie silence that seemed unnatural in a room where the number of instruments outnumbered the number of people. A sixty year-old couple stood at a display in the centre of the room, speaking in hushed voices.

Feeling suddenly intrusive, John slowly walked around the room, admiring the tanned, glossy instruments. Some of the instruments dated back almost two-hundred years, but it was impossible to tell give the minor details.

_Sherlock would be in heaven here_, John thought, peering from the cabinets to the high displays on the walls.

He glanced over at Adler, who was standing by an open display of a set of modern violins – with a 'DON'T TOUCH' plaque screaming at her in the silence. As he walked closer, he realised that one of the violins had a poppy tied around its neck. Then he realised that he _recognised_ the instrument.

He took a sharp breath.

"_This is Sherlock's violin"_, he whispered, totally shocked. Mrs Hudson must've donated it.

Despite the tiny silver plaque warning him not to, he stroked the curve at the top of the instrument's neck, and then the flower.

The flower was real. Someone must've put it here recently, as the edges of the petals were still soft and un-wilted. In an instance, John knew what he had to do.

"We have to get this out of here", he continued, whispering even lower. He looked around the room - the old couple were still there, but still seemed engrossed with the history of the violin.

John slowly unzipped his jacket and slipped the instrument underneath the material. As raised the zip up, it groaned in protest. John crossed his arms in secure the hidden instrument against his chest, and turned to walk out of the room.

Adler stopped him.

"Let me go first", she hushed. She undid her coat and pulled her dress down; revealing more cleavage than John was comfortable looking at. She gave him a meaningful look before stepping ahead of him. John followed her closely behind.

They walked through the busily hallway with a breeze – Adler earning more than a few stunned looks from both young and old alike. Just as they got through the main doorway, they heard a loud commotion behind them as security stared running towards them.

"GO!" John yelled, grabbing the instrument from under his jacket with his hand so he could run. Adler forgot her facade in an instant, and broke into a run beside him as they bolted from the museum...

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	3. Chapter 3

As John ran down the street, he could feel his lungs burning as adrenaline surged through his veins, pumping stronger with each beat of his pulse. Adler was surprisingly fast despite the fact that she was wearing 5 inch stiletto heels, and was unwittingly coordinated. The angry roar of the museum guards followed behind them, seeming awfully close. John was afraid that any second now the deafening roar would become overwhelming, and that his breath would be taken away in a sudden, sharp pull as the museum security tackled him to the ground.

But his legs pushed him on, the fear and excitement kicking his senses into action. He wondered if Sherlock had felt this alert all the time - as his mind accelerated with the details of what he used to call a 'tantalising case'. Feeling the bulky instrument in his hand, John didn't think that this could be far from the truth.

As they turned the corner, Adler quickly slipped into a back-street - so quickly that John almost missed it. Letting her lead, he followed her through the maze of the lost streets of London until they came back out onto a main road. Gazing behind him, John assessed that he could hear the guards, but no longer see them - which meant that they had less than thirty seconds before they caught up with them.

Then the endearing, familiar sight if a black London taxi passed before him. Without thinking, John hurried after the taxi until he was close enough to tap on the car itself. The driver slowed down, then peered out of the passenger-side window suspiciously. John told the driver their destination in a rush, adding:  
>"I'll tip you a fiver if you can get us there in ten minutes."<br>The driver nodded without protest, waiting for Adler to close the door before he once again set off. As John looked back, he could see the rushed guards emerge from the backstreet and disappear into the distance . . .

Breathing a sigh of relief, Adler un-clipped and tidied her hair before neatly putting it up again.  
>"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" she asked impatiently, spare hair slides still sticking out from her mouth.<br>"Afghanistan memorial garden."

John answered without hesitation, though old memories were starting to come to the front of his mind of him on the battleground. He remembered his old comrades, some which had survived, some of which hadn't. The memories of the latter impacted him the most, as it was those who he would never see again, if he wished to see them. Thinking about it, John had lost an awful lot in his lifetime, his comrades, his marriage, and his dear friend Sherlock Holmes. But John preferred not to look back to these tragic times; he had a more pressing case at hand now - solving the case of his late friend.

Ten minutes later, the taxi pulled up outside the memorial gardens. John tipped the driver gratefully and watched the taxi drive off as it stirred memories like a spinning record in his head. When his eyes could no longer follow the black dot in the distance, he put his hands in his pockets and looked at the garden before him. Standing up straight, he stared down the grass verge to see rows upon rows of tiny wooden crosses, each one decorated with a single blazing poppy. As he began walking, he read each plaque, paying his respects to the individual soldiers that were now at peace. Suddenly he stopped, recognising the name on one tiny cross. Immediately, he called himself to attention and saluted an ex-comrade with the utmost recognition and pride.  
>"God bless you, soldier", John whispered, and stood in his pose for a few seconds.<p>

After resuming his natural stance, he looked back at Adler, who was waiting patiently by his side, her attitude totally different from a minute ago. She held out her arm to John, and he graciously took it.

As they walked through the gardens arm-in-arm, John suddenly realised how much he had missed having company for the past week or so. He missed being able to talk to someone, even if Adler didn't necessarily present any answers to the questions he presented. He just liked the company - even if it was with a top-class dominatrix whom he had nothing in common with. Nothing, except his recent friend Sherlock Holmes.

After five long minutes without speaking, Adler spoke up again.  
>"So what are we looking for, exactly?" she asked, staring at the path ahead. To tell the truth, John was wondering the same thing.<br>"This is Sherlock", he said. "Look at the details."

Walking slowly, they looked at each tiny plaque, spotting nothing. A part of John was actually relieved - it meant that at least the vandals at Sherlock's grave had had the decency not to deface this symbolic memorial garden.

Eventually they reached a huge stone plaque, with rows of fallen men's names engraved in bronze on its surface. John bowed his head in respect - but then noticed something at the ground before him.

A single solitary poppy sat at his feet, its striking colour burning against the darker colours of the plaque behind it. John knelt down to pick the poppy up, and then noticed another just four feet from there - not marking a grave. Looking ahead, he noticed three more such poppies leading away from there.

Aware he was now following a trail; John picked up the first poppy and cautiously walked to the next. Aware of what he was doing, Adler followed behind slowly.

The trail of poppies led them to a sheltered bandstand, standing behind another large stone plaque. The final poppy radiated defiantly, aware of its purposeful placement. Kneeling down to pick it up, Adler stopped him before he could walk round the back of the memorial plaque.

"It might be a trap", she warned. "Trust me; I've done more than a few set-ups in my time."

John considered this for a moment, and then gently shook her arm off of his shoulder.

"I have to do this." He looked right into her eyes, searching for understanding. "I have to."

Adler continued staring at him, and then slowly nodded.

"I understand", she murmured. "But I'm coming with you."

Together, they slowly peered round the plaque to the bandstand. Inside, a tall, dark figure was pacing backwards and forwards. But they were moving too quickly and were too far away for John to see their face.

John gingerly stepped forwards in an attempt to get the stranger's attention. Immediately, they stopped moving and turned to face John.

But nothing in the whole of his experience could've prepared John for what he saw next.

Standing, shadowed under the dimness of the bandstand, was Sherlock.

**Thanks for reading, now please review and let me know what you think – and if you want me to carry on writing. Thank you!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you to everyone who has added this story to their alerts/favourites – special thanks to: Miss Sherlock, Holly-Rose Fowl-Casson and Annabeth Black for being my first 3 reviewers.**

A grin slowly spread across Sherlock's lips until it swelled up and filled his whole face. He looked no different than he had a couple of weeks ago – black hair tousled, long coat buttoned – as he stood grandly in the centre of the bandstand.

As soon as he caught sight on his old friend, Sherlock confidently strode towards him, opening his arms up wide.

"John!" he cried, waiting for him to join him in a reunion embrace.

However, John had frozen to the spot in shock – unable to move, talk, or even think. It felt as if he was in a thick cellophane bubble where sound and image was blurred – leaving him in a state of denial. Sherlock _couldn't_ be alive. He'd seen him stare him in the eyes as he'd jumped off of the hospital roof just two weeks ago - plummeting to his death.

This was why it was understandable that, instead of joining Sherlock in an embrace, he stepped forwards and punched him in the face.

Sherlock held his hand up to where John had cuffed him on the cheekbone in surprise, but raised his other hand up in surrender.

"John, your reaction is perfectly normal..." He spoke quickly, trying to reassure his friend. "You're in shock, and one of the main ways to deal with shock is to –"

He was suddenly cut off as John struck him again. He recovered quicker this time, slowly walking towards his friend, crouching down slightly.

"Yes, to strike out. But John, _I'm here_. _I came back_ _to_ –"

Taking him off-guard, John mocked a punch and then spun round to catch Sherlock in a tight headlock.

"John!" Sherlock spluttered, struggling against the vice grip pressing down on his windpipe. "John, stop it! I'm not going to harm you!"

As Sherlock's eyes started drooping and his face started to swell, John was abruptly aware of a voice – incredibly close – in his ear.

"John", the voice was hushed and soft. "You can let go."

John turned to see the placid face of Irene Adler, and realised that her hands were slowly dragging his arms away from Sherlock's neck. In his hazy state, John let her. She slowly sat him down on the bench encircling the inside of the bandstand and let him go. John remained seated, staring at the floor.

After Sherlock retrieved his breath in a few hacking coughs, Adler set her firm gaze on him.

"_What the hell do you think you are doing?"_ she hissed. "_Are you insane? You faked your own death just to come back?"_

"You're not so different yourself", Sherlock muttered defensively. "I do not need to remind you how much trouble I went through to save _you"- _His voice turned sour for a moment –"So _do not_ _question my judgement_. The only way I could've ended my last case was to – effectively – die, to bring down Moriarty's underworld of crime. Though I highly doubt that his work has ended, his associates have most certainly quietened down. John, of all people, must understand that." He looked over at his friend, who was still staring at the stained concrete floor.

Slowly, John shook his head. He could finally feel reality setting in as feeling returned to his numb senses. His hands shook slightly.

Sherlock walked over to him and placed a hand over John's clasped ones to stop them from trembling.

"John", he said quietly. "You knew Moriarty. You knew what he was doing. You know I had to do it, right?" John remained silent. "I know I should've told you sooner, but I'd persuaded myself that you'd be safer if you thought I was... dead. It was stupid – I realise that now – but only a few people can know I'm alive. And John, _I can trust you_. _That's why I came back._"

There was an agonisingly long silence before John finally looked up.

"I'm glad you did", he said, speaking for the first time since his old friend had returned. He gave a tiny smile, which gave Sherlock the greatest feeling of relief.

Sherlock jumped up at once, pressing his hands together and holding them up to his face.

"Let's get started then!"

There was silence in the taxi on the way back to John's new flat, but this time it was a passive silence. Arriving at John's door, Sherlock inspected the peeling paint on the front door with raised eyebrows.

"_Don't_", John warned him. "Since you kicked the bucket, I had to move out of Baker Street."

Sherlock quietly entered, with Adler close behind. He surveyed the place silently with a keen gaze while John put the kettle on, and felt along the wooden desks and shelves.

"How many sugars, Adler?" John called from the kitchen. Before she could answer, Sherlock quickly interrupted.

"I'll do that!"

As fast as a hound, he skidded into the kitchen and snatched the teaspoon from John's grip.

"She doesn't take sugar anyway", he explained as John stared at him for a moment.

Without protest, John turned and left the room – leaving Sherlock responsible for the outcome of the beverages.

"So how exactly did you manage it, then?" Adler asked once they were all sitting down – John in an armchair, with Sherlock and Adler opposite on the settee.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand as he carefully placed the tea and saucer down on the tea-table separating the two halves of the room.

"There will be time to discuss that, but the time is not now", he rushed. "But first's first – what has become of my beloved Baker Street?"

He stared intensely at John, as if he was trying to decode the answer himself. John intervened.

"I stayed there for a while", he admitted. "But after a couple of days, I just couldn't imagine myself there anymore. So I moved out and contacted Scotland Yard, but they..."

"Have they got a buyer?" Sherlock interrupted, now sitting forwards, leaning on his lap.

"I don't know." John didn't even blink at his friend's interruption – he was so used to it, even after the two weeks delay that it didn't seem to faze him at all. "Although I doubt that people would be eager to move into the place of an accused fraud-turned suicide..."

"Excellent!" Sherlock quickly jumped up and spun around. "And what of Mrs Hudson?"

"She hasn't left; bless her – She's too busy keeping the place spick-and-span ready for new guests."

"We'll fit right back in then!" Sherlock sounded delighted. "We'll have to keep it quiet though, no one else will be able to know I'm alive – take Mrs Hudson. I won't be able to be a consulting detective anymore."

His face fell slightly, but then he quickly snapped out of it and turned towards the door. He looked back over his shoulder at John with a grin.

"Ready to go home, Watson?"

**Thank you for reading, now please review and let me know what you think! Thanks.**


	5. Chapter 5

**This chapter is dedicated to Annabeth Black – thanks for always reviewing! Enjoy the chapter everyone!**

As they arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock did his coat up to cover half of his face and began looking out of the back of the taxi anxiously. Feeling the tension rise in the car, John peered out of the window - but saw nothing suspicious. When they stepped out of the vehicle, Sherlock walked slowly - trying not to achieve any unwanted attention - but the people rushing by took no notice of the strange man stalking the streets of London.

John rang the doorbell and spoke to Mrs Hudson whilst Sherlock rushed in, with Adler close behind.

"Oh, John!" Mrs Hudson beamed. "You've found some new residents! Bless you!"

John said nothing, but closed the front door and turned to stare at the half-masked figure that was now waiting in the hallway. Slowly, Mrs Hudson followed.

Sherlock abruptly pulled his coat down from his face and grinned.

"Sherlock!" She immediately rushed over and hugged him. Sherlock embraced his mother-figure, feeling relieved to be safe back at home.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson", he said as they both pulled away. "You certainly know how to make one feel welcomed home."

After acknowledging Sherlock again with a smile, Mrs Hudson peered around him to Adler - who was staring silently from a small distance.

"Mrs Hudson, this is the mysterious Irene Adler", Sherlock introduced. "We'll get you better acquainted once my place is restored."

.

Upstairs, the place was spotless - with not a speck of dust on the gleaming floor. The one thing that had remained was the painted yellow smiley on the wall - one unstripped piece of character.

"Where are my things?" Sherlock exclaimed, running up and down the apartment and noticing that all the shelves were empty and the desks bare.

"I donated them to Uni students", Mrs Hudson replied simply. At Sherlock's astounded reaction, she added, "I figured you weren't to use it anymore."

Hiding his inner angst, Sherlock walked over to the window and searched the street below with his keen gaze.

"I'll need it back. Imminently."

"Can't you just buy new stuff?" John asked, trying to be reasonable.

"Yes, but that would require time to master the equipment, and I'd have to re-catalogue and buy all my research again - which would waste valuable time."

"You said a catalogue?" Mrs Hudson probed, holding up a scruffy book bound together by various ties made of string and rubber bands that kept the pages from falling out. "I found this in your drawer, cleverly hidden under that scarf I got you last Christmas."

"Oh Mrs Hudson, what would I do without you?" Sherlock cried, his tone immediately turning from sour to sweet. He rushed over to her and scooped the book out of her grasp, immediately beginning to scan-read the pages.

"What are you looking for?" John asked. He knew that look - it meant that Sherlock was hot on the trail of something.

Sherlock ignored him, continuing to flick through the torn pages of the unbound book.

"Knew it", he said abruptly, landing on the page he had been searching for. He slammed the battered volume on his empty desk and pointed at the entry at the top of the page.

John, Adler and Mrs Hudson all stepped forwards to peer at the page curiously. Then they all stepped back and cast confused looks towards Sherlock.

"This is Molly Hooper's profile..?" John left the end of his sentence wavering, the unspoken question clear.

"Exactly", Sherlock said, as if it was suddenly obvious. When he saw that his friends hadn't followed his reasoning, he decided to continue with an explanation. "Just before I died, I went to see Molly. I asked her if she would help me, to continue my work even when I was not there." He could see John's expression shift slightly, so he quickly back-tracked. "Not that type of work. I gave her something to look at, to pass onto you - John - when she had come to a valid conclusion."

"What did you give her?" Adler asked, finally speaking up after minutes of being silent.

"Evidence", Sherlock stated simply. When Adler raised her eyebrows at him, he hastily added, "It's better to explain when you see the evidence. Which is where we're going now."

He buttoned his coat back up and made for the door.

"Wait, what?" John called, feeling rather dumbfounded at his friend's shrewdness.

"We're returning to the labs..", Sherlock said, not realising John's lack of understanding.

"Yes, so what about the security cameras?"

"Oh, nothing of an issue." Sherlock waved his hand as if he was batting away the problem. "Molly's smart. She's working in her private office on this case."

"Case?"

Sherlock didn't acknowledge the last comment - instead turning and leaving through the door.

"See you later, Mrs Hudson", he called behind him.

John and Adler exchanged a quick glance before rushing after him.

.

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